


Which I With Sword Will Open

by Fat_Bottomed_Flask



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, I can't bring myself to really torture them, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lots of oysters, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oysters, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Crowley (Good Omens), but not for too long, they love each other too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fat_Bottomed_Flask/pseuds/Fat_Bottomed_Flask
Summary: "Hey, angel," said Crowley, "did you know there's a restaurant in Mayfair called Bentley's Oyster Bar & Grill? I can't believe we've never been there. Seems like it's practic'lly fate or something."
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 201





	Which I With Sword Will Open

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley takes Aziraphale to any oyster restaurant. Shenanigans ensue.
> 
> With thanks to [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin) for reading and encouraging! x

"Hey, angel," said Crowley, "did you know there's a restaurant in Mayfair called Bentley's Oyster Bar & Grill? I can't believe we've never been there. Seems like it's practic'lly fate or something."

The evening light was just beginning to fade in Aziraphale's bookshop. They were sitting on the sofa in the back room. Well, on this particular occasion Crowley was sitting. Aziraphale had his head in Crowley's lap, reading a book. It wasn't their usual configuration, but Crowley found he rather liked being able to push his fingers into the angel's cloud-like curls as he read.

Aziraphale tapped his ring finger against the book's cover, a habit he'd developed over the last few months. It was probably bad for the book, but Crowley had decided not to mention it because, honestly, he enjoyed the soft tap of gently rounded gold on leather. His own ring was flat-edged, formed from precisely the right mixture of rhodium, ruthenium and a few choice oxides so as to create the perfect silvery-black. There'd been no formal ceremony, no big party, special clothes or even paperwork. Just two pieces of metal pulled from the firmament and shaped into perfect, unbroken circles, with no beginning, and certainly no end. Symbols as old as time itself.

Of course, they were stylish pieces of jewellery. They both had their standards.

"Mm," said Aziraphale. "I think I might have visited there once or twice."

"When?"

"Oh, when it opened, I think. When was that?"

Crowley looked at his phone. "1916."

"Well that explains it, my dear. You were napping."

"Huh. Why haven't we been since?"

"I've no idea. There are so many delightful restaurants in London. I imagine it fell down the list. And oysters are terribly seasonal, aren't they? Do you even particularly like them?"

"I like watching _you_ eat them," said Crowley, his hand sliding over Aziraphale's chest.

Aziraphale shivered. "Inexplicably, you like watching me eat, full stop."

"Not gonna argue. But," Crowley's fingers drifted up again, tracing the line of Aziraphale's jaw. "D'you remember Rome? Petronius?"

"Mmhm." Aziraphale's eyelids fluttered shut.

"That," said Crowley, his voice dropping to a low hiss, "was the first time I really _appreciated_ the spectacle."

"Was it now."

Crowley's fingers moved down again, tracing a line down Aziraphale's side and across the outside of his leg to rest on his inner thigh. "It was."

The book fell onto the rug, Crowley made sure it landed neatly closed, of course. He didn't want his angel distracted by a bent spine. Not a book spine, anyway. He leaned at an improbable angle and pressed his lips to Aziraphale's ear.

"Let's get oystersss."

"What are you suggesting?" murmured Aziraphale.

Crowley sat up, all business. "Well," he said, "they've got private dining rooms at this place, and what do you know, one has just miraculously come free. C'mon, angel, let's go."

Aziraphale blinked. "You want to get up from this sofa and go to this restaurant and order oysters? Now?"

"Yup!"

"What game are you playing, you old snake?"

"Just getting dinner."

"Really."

Crowley bent again, whispering. "I'll make it worth your while. I promissse."

"Hm. I trust you didn't do anything too unpleasant to the people who actually booked that private room?"

"'Course not."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow sceptically. Then he gave a little wiggle. "Oh, very well, let's go!"

###

About an hour later they were ensconced in the Crustacea Room at Bentley's Oyster Bar & Grill. It was an intimate space that had been set up with a round, dark oak table that might practically seat six. Naturally, it had just two place settings, close to each other on one side, facing towards the full-length curtained windows that looked out over Swallow Street in Mayfair. The walls around the windows had been painted a rich red, white wainscoting providing contrast and brightness. The carpet was luxuriously thick and the chairs were upholstered in buttery-soft leather.

"This is lovely," said Aziraphale, settling happily into his seat.

"Yeah. It is. Let me order when they come back, 'kay?"

"Really?" Aziraphale frowned. Food selections were usually his domain.

"You trust me, right?"

Aziraphale gave him a look. "For my sins."

Crowley laughed and took a sip of ice-cold Laurent-Perrier Ultra Brut champagne—honeysuckle and citrus and very, very dry. The perfect accompaniment to oysters.

The door behind them opened and Crowley stood and strode to intercept the member of staff who'd just entered. Sentences were started along the lines of _'we'd recommend'_ and _'we don't usually'_ and _'is sir absolutely sure?'_ Crowley politely waved them away, replying that, yes, sir was absolutely sure. Cost was really no concern. Indeed, he was more than happy to compensate anyone who might be inconvenienced. Including any much put-upon waitstaff, naturally. 

Then, in a low voice, he supplied meticulously detailed instructions, at one point even taking the woman's notepad and pen and writing down a series of ingredients. 

He returned to the table and slid back into his seat.

"All arranged?" asked Aziraphale.

"Yep." Crowley picked up his glass and tapped it against Aziraphale's. "Cheers, angel."

The angel smiled. "Cheers, my dear!" 

Crowley huffed at the silly rhyme, sipped, and then rested his chin on the back of his hand, gently grazing his neck with his fingernails.

Aziraphale regarded him over his champagne glass. "You're definitely up to something."

"Me?"

"You always stroke your neck when you're planning."

"Nah."

"You do. It's terribly distracting."

Crowley looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, pointedly not stopping. "I had no idea."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure that after all this time you have _no_ idea," said Aziraphale fondly.

"Must be losing my touch. Am I so obvious?"

"You are _quite_ obvious, yes."

Crowley shrugged. "Want me to stop?"

Aziraphale's eyes glinted. "I suppose we should be sensible before your mysterious order arrives, hm? Don't want to alarm the staff."

Crowley laughed and nodded, hand dropping to the table. They chatted about nothing much for a while, falling into one of their usual, pointless debates. Aziraphale had heard of a man who claimed to be able to identify the music on a vinyl record by looking at the grooves with his eyes. Crowley argued that was completely impossible, because there were a _lot_ of records, and there was no way one person could possibly be familiar with everything from Albéniz to ZZ Top (he was quite pleased with that). Aziraphale responded primly that he had no idea what a ZZ Top might be, but it _sounded_ like the sort of thing that might be discussed in the sex shop next door to his bookshop, which caused Crowley to snort champagne through his nose.

At which impeccably-timed moment the door opened and three servers entered, weighed down with multiple dishes. After Crowley finished coughing and wincing at the burn of bubbles in his sinuses, he watched with an exacting eye as they arranged it all. There were multiple plates of oysters, dressed and served in different ways, as well as an elegantly-presented selection of condiments, plump lemon halves, wooden blocks with small shucking knives and two more bottles of champagne tucked into silver buckets full of ice. It was a ridiculous quantity for two, really, and wouldn't have stayed appetising for the time it would take to consume it all, if not for a little demonic intervention. As if food would dare to spoil, or indeed ice melt, in Crowley's presence.

The centre of the table was taken up with a large, silver platter containing a dozen oysters, beautifully presented on seaweed-decorated crushed ice. Crowley inhaled discreetly, and nodded, satisfied.

He waited for the servers to leave and, with a thought, made absolutely sure no one would come near the door in the foreseeable future, just in case his instructions and financial incentives hadn't been quite clear enough. Staff in places like this, he knew, had deeply-ingrained habits of turning up to ask if everything was all right, just at the most inopportune moments.

Crowley pulled off his sunglasses, tossed them on the table, and leaned back.

"So, angel, Rome."

Aziraphale breathed in deeply in delight. 'Crowley, are these...?' He reached for an oyster on the centre platter, its shell a delicate pearly white, picked it up and lifted it to his nose. 'Oh, it _is_. However did you...?'

Crowley grinned and tapped his own nose. Then he poked out the tip of his tongue and touched that to his fingertip, too. 'Perks of bein' a snake. Excellent sense of smell. Or taste. Same thing, really."

"Of course," said Aziraphale, happily. He tipped the oyster shell into his mouth, chewed precisely twice and swallowed. He moaned, making absolutely no effort to conceal his enthusiasm. Well, it _was_ a private room. "I swear, these are exactly like the ones we had at Petronius' restaurant."

Crowley gazed, likewise making no effort to disguise anything. "'M glad. Have another."

"You should try one, darling. They're divine.

Crowley shivered.

"Positively glorious. Heavenly."

"Ugh. Stop it."

Aziraphale giggled. "And they go beautifully with the champagne."

Keeping his eyes on the angel, Crowley reached out, picked up an oyster shell and brought it up to his mouth, tasting the scents of lovage and pepper, wine and honey. Exactly as he'd instructed. He tipped it down his throat. Aziraphale was right – the smooth, meaty, saltiness combined with the other flavours was perfect. "Yeah, s'nice," he said, leaning forward and resting his chin on the back of his hand again.

Aziraphale looked at him appreciatively, and picked up another oyster. "You know, there might actually be some scientific truth in that thing about oysters being aphrodisiacs."

"Mm?"

"Yes. I read something. They contain two particular amino acids that trigger testosterone production, apparently. In males. Or, er. Progesterone, in females."

Crowley raised an eyebrow as Aziraphale swallowed, again making a pleased little moaning sound. He sipped his cold champagne and resisted the temptation to move.

"Not," continued Aziraphale with a hint of wickedness in his voice, "that we need to be bothered by such things, I suppose."

"Or," said Crowley, his voice a low rumble, "you could eat a ton of the fucking things and let yourself get really, _really_ bothered."

Aziraphale fixed his blue-green eyes on Crowley for a long second. Then he picked up an oyster from one of the other plates. "Ooh, Rockefeller. They're terribly rich but, well, I suppose that's the point." He tipped the delicacy topped with chopped greens into his mouth. "Delicious."

Heat pooled in Crowley's gut.

"Do eat some more, darling."

Not looking away from Aziraphale, Crowley reached for another oyster and tipped it into his mouth. As he swallowed he found himself thinking of other things that were smooth and slippery and slightly salty.

For a while they both ate. Aziraphale steadily working his way around the different plates, exclaiming in delight each time. Crowley trying one here or there, but mostly focusing on the champagne and resisting the increasingly strong urge to climb over the table and swallow Aziraphale. He'd spent so many meals like this over the years, gazing, hungry for something that had nothing to do with the food. The knowledge that he could act on it now, but was choosing not to for the moment, was thoroughly intoxicating. He reached down, pressing his palm against his groin in an attempt to get more comfortable.

Aziraphale caught the movement and raised an eyebrow. "Enjoying yourself, my dear?"

"Mmhm."

The angel smiled. "Me too, I have to say. This really is delightful. What a wonderful idea." He pushed back from the table, soft-skinned hands running over his belly. "I'm not sure I can eat another bite."

Crowley watched the movement.

"The lovely thing about togas, of course," continued Aziraphale, "is that they were so _free_ weren't they? No waistbands to dig in. No buttons. Very little restriction of movement, all in all." His fingers stopped on his thighs. "It's rather warm, don't you think?"

"It's a private room," said Crowley, voice low.

"You made sure?"

"Of course."

"Well, then. There's no need to be uncomfortable, is there?" Aziraphale's fingers slipped to his waistcoat buttons, which he undid slowly. He shrugged it off and hung in over the back of his chair, before turning his attention to his cufflinks, removing them and rolling up his sleeves.

Crowley watched, spellbound.

Aziraphale undid his bowtie, pulled it out of his collar, rolled up the fabric and slid it into his trouser pocket. Then he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing a triangle of pale skin, before letting his fingers slip down to his fly. He undid the top button and sighed. "That's better." His fingers stilled, resting once more on his thighs.

Crowley leaned closer and nearly fell out of his seat. "Bollocks to chairs," he muttered thickly, snapping his fingers.

Aziraphale started as he found himself sitting on a Roman lectus, a comfortably-padded couch-like thing, long enough to stretch out on, with soft arms at both ends. It was wider than the original Roman article of furniture might have been, so as to, perhaps, better accommodate two. He chuckled. "No togas?"

"After _that_ little display?" Crowley waved a hand up and down, taking in the angel's undone buttons and rolled-up sleeves. "Absolutely not. Nope."

Aziraphale bent to unlace his Oxfords and pushed them off his feet, before lounging back against one of the arms. "Well, then. Are you going to join me?"

"Fuck, yes." Crowley's snakeskin boots disappeared, if they were ever really boots in the first place. He stretched out on the lectus, resting his head on his hand, facing Aziraphale.

"So," said the angel. "What are you in the mood for now?"

Crowley sniggered and gently pushed him down, moving so he was lying between Aziraphale's thighs, and pushed himself up on his forearms. "Be trite to say dessert, wouldn't it?"

"Mm. Probably."

"Won't, then. Very cool, me." He lowered his lips, dropping kisses to the side of Aziraphale's lips, across his jaw, down his neck, and over to the vee of pale skin where his shirt was unbuttoned.

Aziraphale tipped his head back. "Not sure cool is the word I'd... ahh... use at this moment."

"No?"

The angel pulled Crowley's shirt out of his trousers and slid his hands up the lean planes of his back. "You feel positively warm. Flushed. One might even say hot."

"Yeah well, I've been watching you eat oysters for the last hour. For fuck's sake." Crowley shifted again so that one of Aziraphale's thick thighs was between his legs and pushed his cock, still constrained by too-tight fabric, against him. "Ngh, your thighs."

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed. "And I've been eating oysters, a scientifically-proven aphrodisiac, whilst watching you stroke your neck and drink champagne and drape yourself over the table like one of those terribly graphic Renaissance statues for the last hour. Except, my dear, I am _very_ aware that your cock is much, much more appealing than anything in those statues."

Crowley blinked. He rarely thought about the effect _he_ might have on his husband during meals. Dark thoughts slithered into his mind as he idly traced the outline of Aziraphale's swollen cock through the fabric of his trousers, feeling him twitch and shiver. "Hmm," he murmured.

"Crowley, _please_."

Crowley whispered in Aziraphale's ear, his voice all dark chocolate and good brandy. "Tell me what you _really_ want, angel. Fast or slow?"

Aziraphale swallowed. His hips twitched.

"I think," Crowley nipped gently at Aziraphale's neck, "that you want me to drag this out a bit. Hm?"

"M-maybe."

"Tease you, keep you... needy."

"Ahh..."

"Colour, angel?" asked Crowley, momentarily serious.

"Green. Do your worst," replied Aziraphale cheerfully.

"Worst, indeed," muttered Crowley, rolling his eyes. "As if."

"Best, then."

"Oh, just you wait." He watched his own, long fingers as they undid the other buttons, grazing Aziraphale's cock through the fabric as they did so.

Aziraphale let his head fall back. "Ohh, that feels good."

Crowley pressed his palm over Aziraphale's cock, still covered by the cotton of his underwear. His own twitched, painfully constrained by unyielding denim, but he ignored it as he gently pulled on the waistband of Aziraphale's underwear, so that his thick cock was freed, velvety hard and already dark red. He ran his fingers up the length, touching lightly, drifting over the sensitive tip.

Aziraphale groaned.

A small bottle of olive oil appeared in Crowley's other hand. He could slick his hand miraculously, of course, but hey, when in Rome. Or, you know, more or less. He pulled the cork out with his teeth. Aziraphale watched him, chewing his bottom lip, pupils blown wide. He looked delicious, half-dressed and already half-gone with want. Crowley could sense his lust, a rich, crimson sensation that curled and twisted around the angel and slipped its fingers into Crowley's own gut, making him throb and ache with the desire to fall into it. Let it wrap around them both and consume them until they shattered into fragments and it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

He bit back a groan and poured the oil into his hand, inhaling the pungent, slightly fruity scent of it before letting his fingers slide around the angel's cock, gripping loosely, so as not to generate anywhere near enough friction to provide relief. An agonisingly slow tease.

"Fuuuck," mumbled Aziraphale, eyes closing again.

"Not for a while, love," whispered Crowley, moving closer so their lips met. Aziraphale licked hungrily into his mouth, tasting of salt and champagne. Crowley moved to the angel's neck, and then his ear, nipping his earlobe. Aziraphale gasped and his cock pulsed in Crowley's grasp.

Crowley caught his earlobe between his teeth again and increased the pressure of his strokes, just a little. His own cock protested anew at its neglect, and he pushed his other hand down over the denim. "Look at you, " he groaned. "I could almost come, just like this... hngghh... barely touched."

"Don't... ahhh... don't let me stop you."

Crowley moved his hand for fear that he might, actually. "Ah, ah," he chided, "don't distract me."

Aziraphale huffed, and then gasped again as Crowley sped up a little, sliding his hand over the sensitive tip of the angel's cock. With his other hand he stroked his balls, the flesh firm and taut. Full. 

Aziraphale dug his fingers into the padded fabric of the lectus. He was gasping now, his hips twitching as Crowley twisted his hand just a little on the upwards stroke. "Ah, oh, Crowley, I'm—"

Crowley made a circle with his finger and thumb and gripped Aziraphale's cock tight around the base. It pulsed, drips of white come appearing at the tip. "Not yet," he whispered.

Aziraphale drew in a shuddery breath. "Fiend," he muttered.

"Literally." Crowley let go and Aziraphale's cock, now flushed so dark it was almost purple, fell against the soft roundness of his belly. Crowley undid the last of the angel's shirt buttons and pushed the fabric over his broad shoulders. Aziraphale raised himself up to let him, shrugging the shirt over his forearms and throwing it over the back of a nearby chair. Crowley's own shirt disappeared with a thought and he pressed himself against the angel, kissing his chest and licking his nipples. His hand slipped back to Aziraphale's cock, a slow, gentle slide, as his other hand pushed trousers and underwear down over the plush curve of his arse.

Aziraphale shifted his hips to help, which had the effect of pushing him hard into Crowley's fist. He sighed brokenly when Crowley let go to pull off both trousers and socks. He left his own jeans. Truth be told, there was something about the discomfort that he almost enjoyed and, besides, he knew that Aziraphale appreciated the way the line reddish hair trailed under his low-slung waistband, sharply-defined obliques and the lines of his hip bones creating a tempting, downward triangle that pointed to something hidden.

Sure enough, the angel gazed at him as he resumed his slow slide. "Like I said," he whispered, "more beautiful than any of the statues you inspired."

"'S not exactly what you said," said Crowley, feeling the pale skin of his neck redden as he sped up a little.

"It's what I... ahh... meant."

Crowley dipped his head, wrapping his lips around Aziraphale's cock, tasting olive oil mingled with the salty-bitterness of the angel's pre-come. Aziraphale groaned as Crowley wrapped his tongue around him. He pushed his fingers into his hair, and Crowley shivered at the sensation of blunt fingernails against his scalp. Aziraphale bent his knee obligingly, encouraging Crowley to press his aching cock against his calf.

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale was gasping again, pulling Crowley's hair and thrusting desperately. Heat and pleasure built again in Crowley's groin and he was almost tempted to give in. Let it happen.

But no, he'd promised something else, and Aziraphale would let him know if he wanted this to end.

At the end of a particularly loud groan from Aziraphale, he gripped the angel's cock at the base and slid off with an obscene pop.

Aziraphale cried out, and then panted for a few seconds. "How long do you plan to... ohh... to do this?"

"Oh, I dunno. We've got the room all evening. Heaven, I could make them forget it's even here for a few days."

"That might be a bit... excessive." said Aziraphale, weakly.

"Colour?"

"Green. But I do want to go home this evening, love."

Crowley grinned and grabbed the bottle of oil again, making sure his fingers were well-slicked, and then made a circular motion in the air. "Turn over."

Obediently Aziraphale turned so that he was resting on his knees and elbows on the soft padding of the Roman couch, his arse exposed, the darkened skin of his balls just visible.

Crowley sighed happily. "Perfect," he said, sliding one hand around Aziraphale's waist. The back of his fingernails tapped the angel's bobbing cock, but he left it otherwise untouched, instead slipping the tip of one well-oiled finger into the angel's tight arse.

Aziraphale made a faint, high-pitched noise and tried to push back, but Crowley held him firm, teasing the rim with gentle, slow strokes, only gradually allowing his finger to slip a little deeper.

"That feel good, angel?" he whispered.

"You _know_ it... ahhhh... Crowley... yes."

Crowley allowed his finger to slide a little deeper, seeking out that slightly raised, sensitive spot. Such a strange design, the human body, but delightful for all that. Aziraphale whimpered and Crowley's cock ached and pulsed, desperate for friction. But he had no hands free now, and it was difficult to even press against anything like this. Instead, he bit his lip and chose to enjoy the torture of his own making.

He worked tiny circles over Aziraphale's prostate, feeling the angel shiver and shake beneath him, the heavy heat of his cock nudging the back of Crowley's fingers where his hand was splayed over Aziraphale's belly, enjoying the feeling of soft flesh under his fingers.

"Ahhh, Crowley!"

Crowley slid another finger in to join the first, relishing the slide and pull. "So tight," he murmured. "This might take a while."

Aziraphale groaned, and Crowley took pity on him, adding a third finger and twisting his hand a little, feeling him relax and open.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," mumbled Aziraphale, brokenly, and Crowley's cock pulsed again. He let his heated face fall against the angel's back, tongue darting out to taste the salty scent of him.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" He whispered, his voice barely a vibration. "Slide my cock into your tight, little arse? I don't think I'll last long. Watching you like this. I'm... so... fucking... horny. So hard. This perfect, delectable, arse in front of me. Probably come straight away. Couldn't control myself."

"I. Don't. Care." Aziraphale ground the words out.

"Sure? We could stay like this a while longer." Crowley twisted his fingers, rubbing Aziraphale's prostate again. He knew perfectly well it wasn't enough to make the angel come, but, yeah, it would set his spine to sparks and his belly to fire.

"I hate you," groaned Aziraphale.

"You dooon't." Crowley twisted his fingers again.

"I don't," panted the angel. "I love you. But _please_ fuck me."

"Ahh, well, since you ask so nicely," said Crowley, letting go of Aziraphale's belly to finally, _finally thank fuck_ , undoing his own belt buckle and flies. His eyes rolled back into his head as his hand closed around his cock. "Oh, Lucifer, that feels..." He trailed off, giving himself a few long strokes.

"Don't get me wrong," muttered Aziraphale, glancing over his shoulder, "I love it when you come all over my arse, but _now is not the time._ "

Crowley huffed a soft laugh and reluctantly let go of his cock, at the same time wishing his trousers into the aether, because he really couldn't be bothered with skinny jeans right now. He slowly withdrew his fingers from the angel's arse and Aziraphale shuddered at the sensation.

Crowley lined himself up and slid, slowly, in, until his groin was flush with the angel's hips and all he could feel was slick, tight, heat. It felt so good. Almost overwhelmingly good. He paused, took a few steadying breaths, and began to move, seeking out the perfect angle.

"Yes, there, oh, _there_ ," moaned Aziraphale as Crowley snapped his hips and moved other hand around to slide over the angel's desperately hard cock.

"Ohh fuck, I wasn't... it wasn't just talk before. I can't. Fuck. You feel so good."

"Don't care. But please. Let me come. I need to come."

"Courssssse..." Crowley's voice dissolved into hiss as he moved faster, twisting his hand over the top of Aziraphale's cock.

Aziraphale cried out, and Crowley felt him clench hard around him as he came, thick and hot over Crowley's hand. He followed him over the edge, completely unable to control himself, even if he'd wanted to. His cock pulsed, and the aftershocks seemed to go on and on, bright stars blooming behind his eyelids.

###

They collapsed next to each other on the lectus, and Crowley curled into Aziraphale's side. "I love you," Aziraphale whispered into his hair.

"Mmm fff hhooo ttt," mumbled Crowley into his skin.

Aziraphale looked over at the almost-forgotten dining table. "I do enjoy seafood," he said, slightly wistfully.

"Should get nearer the sea," muttered Crowley, slightly more coherently. 

"We should," agreed Aziraphale. Then he pushed himself up on one elbow, causing Crowley to roll onto his back with a groan. "Crowley! Let's _live_ by the sea!"

"Wha?"

"Let's get a... a... house or, or... a cottage! Yes, a cottage! Somewhere near the coast."

"'Way from London?" Crowley looked sceptical. "Wha' about symphonies and the opera and the theatre and the Ritz?"

Aziraphale waved a hand airily. "South coast. It's not that far. The way you drive, darling, we'll barely notice the difference."

"'S a lot, just for fresh seafood."

"Idiot," said Aziraphale fondly. "It's not just that. It'll be a home, Crowley. With a proper kitchen. And a garden for your plants. And, oh, a library!"

Crowley thought about it, his too-human heart pounding in his chest. The idea of a place of their own shouldn't have been shocking, or even really surprising. They'd already promised each other, hadn't they? Their side, over all others. That was fixed and bound in words and metal. But for some reason, the idea of a place with both their things, both of _them_ , intermingled and together, felt almost... blasphemous.

Not wrong, though. Right. Good.

He nodded and Aziraphale smiled at him, and the room lit up, sun-bright. At least, it seemed like that to Crowley. It always did, when Aziraphale smiled. The angel sat up and swung his feet the floor. "Come on, then, darling, we need to clean up, put things back."

Crowley pushed down a yawn and sat up himself. "Yep, yeah. 'Kay."

In a few minutes they were both clean and dressed, the lectus was gone and the chairs were back. Crowley even sent all the plates and cutlery back to the kitchen, because there was no point in expending energy to do half a job, after all. They left, arm-in-arm, and although none of the staff could remember bringing the two gentlemen their bill, or clearing their table, _someone_ must have taken care of it, because the room was spotless and the bill was paid, with an extremely generous tip.

The angel and the demon went to the bookshop, where they drank wine and laughed and even slept a little, in between doing other things. And in the morning, they got into the black Bentley that was almost always parked outside.

And they drove to the South Downs. 


End file.
